The fear I pushed away when I started following Quinn is back. Even if Quinn won’t hurt me, I’m completely exposed. Not to mention that I’ve left Benson totally unprotected. If anyone found the car—Sunglasses Guy, Elizabeth, hell, who knows how many people are looking for me—they could easily off Benson and then put a bullet in my head from behind.

Worst of all, in this forest, my body might never be found.

The thought sends a new chill up my spine and I clench my fists and force myself to pick up the pace. It’s too late to turn back—I’m just going to have to deal with the consequences.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

We walk—Quinn heading roughly back in the direction of Camden, but still deep within the trees—for what feels like hours. With nearly numb fingers I check the time on my phone.

I left the car almost an hour ago. I’m so cold I can hardly move my toes, and it’s snowing hard enough I can barely see Quinn just a few feet in front of me.

“Quinn,” I call softly, jogging forward to try to catch up with him yet again. “I can’t go on much longer,” I say, surprised when he lets me draw close. “How far is it?”

But he’s silent, still. I look around, my light flashing narrow beams over the dense forest. We’ve got to be almost two miles from the car, but other than that, I have no idea where I am. I try not to think about how cold I’m going to be by the time I get back.

Or how far up the sun will be.

“There are people—” I stagger and have to take a second to right myself. “People following me. Shooting at me. I can’t just wander off like this. My … friend Benson is still back at the car. Quinn!” I whisper-yell, but my voice is muffled by the fresh powder.

A mound of earth covered in snow, with withered grass barely poking up through it, catches my attention as my light skims over it, and even as I take a step toward it, Quinn is moving with me.

“This way,” he whispers. He gestures to the small hill and I walk, leaves and snow crunching beneath my feet.

Suddenly my feet break through some kind of weedy covering and I fall on my butt, with my legs sunk to my knees in foliage.

“I crafted these steps specifically to blend in.” Quinn’s voice is quiet above me.

“Well, thanks for the warning,” I mutter, the cold taking its toll on my attitude. I can already feel the soft snow melting through my jeans, soaking my underwear. Fabulous. This midnight stroll had better lead somewhere good. My patience is past the wearing thin point, and hypothermia is not going to improve my mood.

Quinn says nothing, just looks off into the distance as I clear away enough debris to make my way down six stone steps that end in front of a weather-worn door that looks like it was laid right against the hill. Shelter, finally.

I pause as something prickles at my awareness. I study the door and the stairs, covered with old leaves and sticks. Despite knowing where this place is, Quinn hasn’t actually come down these steps. At least not recently. You can’t fake this kind of overgrowth. “Why didn’t you come here before?” I ask, staring at an elaborate locking mechanism. “Maybe clear things away before you came to get me?”

“I was waiting for you.”

I give myself a moment to stare back, to let that liquid heat in his gaze slip into me and warm my chest. Just for a moment—I’m so cold—then I turn regretfully away and try to open the round latch.

“It’s locked.” I wonder if this whole trip was for nothing and try to tamp down my frustration.

“You can unlock it. Anytime you desire.”

“How about now?” I mutter. My toes and fingers are starting to ache and I wish I could get out of the wind, even for just a few minutes. I’m wondering briefly if I can simply make heat, or maybe just something that produces heat, but I shy away from the idea. I’m not desperate yet; and with my track record I’d probably burn down the whole forest, and Camden with it. Quinn’s voice breaks into my dreary thoughts.

“I’ll talk you through it this time, Becca.”

“Tavia!” I correct through chattering teeth, wanting to lash out at him. I laid my very life on the line to get to him—not to mention Benson’s—and he calls me the wrong name. I fight down the urge to just leave. But then this whole escapade really would be a complete waste. I need to know what’s behind this door. But frustration simmers in the back of my head.

More than simmers. Boils.

Maybe that will keep me warm.

“See the four pegs?” he asks.

I look down and notice that there are four iron pegs in a deep niche just above the strange lock. I blow on my hands to warm them, then reach for the pegs. They’re the same width, but each one is a different length. I crouch down beside the door and shine my light. There are six holes in the lock, just the right size for the pegs.

“The longest goes in the third one down,” Quinn says, and I fumble for the pegs, slipping the longest into the small hole, having to jiggle it a little before it snaps into place.

Quinn talks me through the next three pegs and when they’re all in, I grasp a large knob and turn it clockwise until I hear something metal click. My hands touch the surface of the door but are so numb I don’t feel anything.

I push, but nothing happens. In the end I have to ram my shoulder against the door before it pops open a few inches with a squeal that cuts the silent night air. I try not to consider all the people who could have heard that who would love to kill me right now.